by K. C. Ale
“My life was never in question.”
“You died!” Contradicting my assertion, my palm seeks and finds the rapid beats against his chest. My fingers curl as though they can hold them in and savor. “In my mind, you were dead.”
“In your heart, you knew I wasn’t. You knew, the moment you saw me again.”
He’s wrong. My head didn’t allow me to fathom the absurd possibility, and my heart was already too shattered to risk the thought. Even with that, my soul wouldn’t be denied, recognized every aching inch of his.
That soul right now wants nothing more than to cling to his and never let go.
Done fighting, through with resisting, and positively over his fake demise, I envelope him with arms that might not be too steady, but they effectively and completely bind him to me.
And feel every bit of his strength and dogged determination when his wrap me so tightly against him that I meld into him.
*****
“Is Carlson his first or last name?”
A couple of hours ago that question might had made him frown with suspicion and irritation. Rolling over so he’s looking down at my sated and curious features, he briefly skims his lips on mine. Immediately my arms are around him, never too far away.
“Are you pining for my guard?”
My face scrunches up. “Pining for him to leave me in peace. Carlson is always around. Is he here to guard you or me? While we’re on the subject,” I assert, “is he really a guard? Because I’ll tell you, he doesn’t act like it.”
“I didn’t know Carlson was a subject,” he feigns grumbling. Fingers brush back my hair from my temple. Just as I can’t seem to not hold him, he’s having a hard time keeping his hands off me. “His name is Sebastian Carlson.”
“Sebastian?” He looks nothing like a Sebastian. “No wonder he goes by Carlson.”
Brad’s chest rumbles with his chuckle. “I’ve ever only known him as Carlson and accidentally discovered his full name when we signed the contract.”
“You mean like an NDA?”
The big hand smooths down my neck to my shoulder. “Not exactly.” He pauses before skating that palm to my bare hip. “Carlson owns forty percent of HC, part of his inheritance from his family. By the time it was his, the company was already on a downward spiral. He offered to go into partnership with me, and we rebuilt it to what it is today. After it became clear HC wasn’t going to crash and burn, Carlson chose not to be involved in the day-to-day running of it.”
I gape at him disbelievingly. “You’re kidding me.”
“Not at all. HC actually stands for Hawkes Carlson, but most people, including the general staff, are under the impression the ‘C’ is for construction. Carlson prefers it that way. Him being my guard makes it easier to explain his consistent presence… and he enjoys the role and the image.”
“But you threatened to fire him. Not to mention he lives on your property.”
“Fire him as my sham guard,” he clarifies. “It’s what we do.” Soft lips trail across the top of my breasts, tongue licking and flicking. “He lives in the guesthouse because it’s easier, more convenient. It’s temporary until the construction on his own house is complete in September.”
“I like that he’s nearby, watching out for you.”
“And you.”
“And me,” I agree. Falling silent, I let his wandering palm coast over my skin. “My father looked happy.”
“I think he is.”
“I knew him returning to HC wasn’t an option, but I never thought he’d move so far away.”
“Arizona isn’t far. We can visit him anytime.” His mouth tours up my shoulder and down again. “How about you? With Todd gone, are you returning to HC?”
“Em…” His lips are so talented. “Can’t think with you doing that.”
“Good, because it’s a no brainer.” Restless hands float from my sides to my arms and stomach, igniting a fire recently tamed. Twice. “Now, do you really want to talk?” he sighs from the side of my breast.
My fingers tunnel into his hair before easing him up until his gaze is on me. “Bradley Christopher Hawkes, we just fucked our brains out twice,” I tease. “Are you really that hard up so soon?”
“Do you blame me? Look at you.” His face half turns to nibble my palm. “Besides, I’ll have you know that was not fucking. Since you’re still quite new at this, I feel it my duty to inform and demonstrate to you the difference between fucking and making love.”
I can’t help it. The bark of laughter just escapes. “Making love? That’s the corniest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
He scowls. “What do you mean? It’s true.”
Not bothering to resist, my hands smooth over his incredible ass. “Hm… Are you telling me you’ve been in love before? When did you figure out the difference between the two?”
“I discovered the distinction a few weeks ago.” Hands reach back and capture my wrists, smoothing them to link our fingers before bringing them to either side of my head. “I’ve been in love before.” My back arches as he slips inside me. “I never stopped loving you, Gemmy.”
Thank You
Thank you so much for spending time with Gemma and Brad/Lee. If you enjoyed it, won’t you please take a moment to leave me a review at your favorite retailer?
Take a peek at The Platonic Boyfriend Experiment available now.
Deepest thanks!
K.C. Ale
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The Platonic Boyfriend Experiment
Chelsea
Look at him, acting like he’s the only man on earth capable of giving a girl the sheet shredding orgasm of her life, eating up the assembly of giggly women ferociously elbowing each other to vie for his attention. It’s an open invitation to a panties-optional party, because there is no doubt that they are coming off sooner rather than later anyway.
And they were all falling for it. Every single one of them. Eagerly pouncing on him like he’s the lone sales rack at Nordstrom’s. Pathetic.
Sure, he’s attractive. If you like the tall, broad, solid shoulders over a lean waist and killer abs, head full of nut brown hair negligently fashioned for slender fingers to grip in ecstasy, flirting dimples below smoky eyes that crinkled sexily as though he will make you crave a good time… wait, what was I complaining about?
Oh yeah. Him.
Number 2057.
The hot one with bad bet written all over him like a cruel rash.
Mentally rolling my eyes, I drag my gaze away from the ridiculous spectacle the women are making of themselves. The last thing I need is a distraction.
Or a pretty face and a smoking bod with not much else to show for them.
Blaring, booming music singe the air to spike up my itching blood. Barely leashed energy and anxious anticipation bounce excitedly in the chill of sunrise, calling the mind to pump vigorously and the restless heart to move. The usually busy streets of L.A. are shut down for this much anticipated event, allowing the thousands of runners to move freely in the allotted time. Bringing my leg back behind me, I grab my ankle and nervously scan for Maddy. If my friend doesn’t get here soon, she’s going to miss the start.
Clasping my fingers together, I bring them high above my head, feeling the early morning stiffness give with each tug and roll of my shoulders. My own bib is securely pinned to the front of my worn gray t-shirt. Number 2133.
Well, just because we’re on the same corral doesn’t mean we’ll see each other beyond the starting point. He probably wouldn’t last more than a mile before he’s huffing and puffing at a mere leisurely stroll.
Not that he looks like he’s out of shape. Not even a winking hint of it.
But running a marathon isn’t hanging out at the gym. Stamina, perseverance, and strict training are what’s needed, not how much weight he can bench press while gallantly flexing for the fawning groupies, I consider with just a touch of petty resentment.
A burst of female laughter has my gaze swerving back to
the small group to the side. Even among the many loitering bodies, shifting and bopping in their rigorous warm up, I can clearly make out the rock star and his adoring fans. A few of the overzealous women now have their greedy claws on the guy. Arms. Shoulders. Back. Whatever they can grab without publicly molesting him.
And he’s soaking it up.
It’s not that I’m a man-hater. On the contrary, I find the opposite sex stimulating, contrary, and even helpful at times.
But his type? I’m too familiar with men like him, know his kind doesn’t pay a lick of attention to someone like me – simple, uncomplicated, undemanding. Their philosophy is: if you look as good as I do, you have the right to act the selfish, cavalier jerk.
No thanks.
As if the mocking universe wants to give me ridiculous ideas, laughing yet penetrating eyes dart up and snatch my breath, taking my unsuspecting gaze hostage. An odd tingle races up my spine and I can’t look away. Without warning my skin flushes in the crisp morning chill, against the heated intensity of his unwavering study. One of his female fans runs a hand along his jaw as though teasing him about the lazy scruff, but he doesn’t seem to notice as he locks his acute gaze from fifteen feet away, the distance of nothing but empty air.
A man hops repeatedly up and down, shooting breaths out of his pursed lips as he actively warms up and effectively breaks the strange trance.
“Chels, there you are!” Maddy rushes over, ponytail flying behind her, cute as usual in a pink V-neck workout shirt and black running shorts. Number 2132 is anchored on her chest. “Whew. There’s a huge line at the restroom at Starbucks. There are people everywhere! I thought I wasn’t going to make it. Jake had to drop me off while he deals with valet,” she huffs out.
“What happened to Josh?” I ask of the man she recently started dating.
Horrified at the suggestion, she makes a face. “I can’t have him see me all ragged afterwards. Jake’s seen me at my worst, so that’s no biggie. Anyway, you ready for this?”
I shrug at her. Whatever it takes, that was what we agreed on when we signed up seven months ago. “God, I hope so. I’d be happy if I don’t face plant and break a bone or five. We’ve been training for months.”
She grins, killer dimples flashing. “I know. I can’t wait to get my hands on that medal. Jonathan is convinced I won’t finish. Trash-talked me the whole time. I’ll make him eat his words.”
“Where is your brother?” Maddy mentions him all the time, along with her platonic boyfriend, Jake, but to this day I’ve never met the first.
“I haven’t seen him. He said he wanted to be here early, and Jake insisted on bringing me, so we came separately.” She frowns and scans around, but there are just too many people. “I told him to meet me in front of this burger place. Let me call him.” Wiggling her phone out of her armband, she covers her free ear with a palm. “Hey, where are you?” She listens just as an announcement blasts to ready the first corral. “In front of the burger place. What?” Her head lifts, eyes skimming about. Then she’s throwing up her hand and waving madly. “Right here! Hurry. They’re about to start.”
BLEEP!
“The first wave just started.” Fastening her phone back, she loops an arm through mine. “Come on. We need to get in place.”
“Hey, brat.”
My fixed gaze drags along the length of a large, wide hand gently tugging at Maddy’s ponytail. Of its own accord, it trails along a sinewy forearm lightly sprinkled with dark hair, up a defined, insanely sculpted bicep to a form fitting black t-shirt to the number 2057.
“It’s about time!” Maddy shouts over the roar of restless anticipation from the crowd. “I thought you chickened out.”
“In your dreams because that’s the only way you’d beat me on this.”
“We’ll see about that,” she smirks before tugging me close and bringing me into her circle. “This is my friend Chelsea Borsh. I told you about her? Chelsea, my annoying brother, Jonathan.”
Up close, his striking features more distinct, I can honestly conclude that he’s not just honest to goodness eye-candy, he’s eye-chocolate mocha cream cheesecake. He’s the masculine version of Maddy. Very masculine. Only much taller. Rougher. Where Maddy is a petite five-three, he must be a good foot taller, towering over my decent five-eight frame. At twenty-four, Maddy has a bubbly, innocent playfulness about her that she doesn’t bother to mask or pretend to play down. Her brother, on the other hand, looks to be in his early thirties and is all practiced words and smooth moves.
Eyes the color of liquid silver leisurely takes me in. Not crudely. Skillfully suggestive without being blatantly intrusive. The way he looks… even in comfortable training wear, the man oozes pure melted sex. I can see why those women fell for him at first glance.
That doesn’t mean I will.
Fireworks explode in my stomach, but I staunchly ignore them.
“Chelsea Borsh.” A self-assured, admire-me-I-am-here stretch of very beautiful, plush lips. Dimples burst over chiseled cheeks. “Definitely a pleasure.”
As much as I try to suppress it and to my absolute annoyance, my heedless stomach flutters in undeniable feminine excitement and anticipation. The weak traitor. Instinctively, my fingers search for the band of silver to twirl around my thumb but find only bare skin. Crap! I took it off for the race.
I give him a polite but reserved smile, one I often use with new clients. “Mr. Volt.”
“Jonathan.” A wicked wink. “Or just Jon.”
“Okay, just Jon. We need to move.” Maddy ushers the both of us through masses of hyped bodies to the starting line, ready to leap full force at the first signal. “Don’t forget,” she jeers up at her brother, “You owe me lunch when I beat your sorry ass. And Chelsea and Jake, too!”
“Wait a minute, that wasn—”
BLEEP!
“See you guys at the finish line!”
I watch as brother and sister vault off, skillfully sidelining other runners as I push at a steady pace a few beats behind them. Lord help me, I don’t care if I’m last. I just want to finish without any injuries or vomit.
And the view is nice back here, I have to admit. Jon’s in incredible shape, there’s no denying that. His hard calves and strong, molded thighs bunch and tauten splendidly below gray athletic shorts. Though the black t-shirt shields half of it, the shifting and tightening of fabric over molded flesh promises a drool-worthy tush. A quick glimpse around reveals I’m not the only woman noticing what appears to be an intro to live female-porn before us. Before I can blink there’s a mop of riveted women gaining fast and blocking my view, panting from either exertion or excitement. Probably both.
I veer and elude, a little bothered at the puffing, overeager women and myself.
I’m not fighting to keep him in view. I’m just trying to keep up.
Yeah right.
Maddy glances over her shoulder. I give her a quick wave and a thumbs-up, letting her know I’m okay. She smiles before tilting toward her brother, saying something to him that I can’t make out amidst the pounding running shoes and huffing breaths around me. My own lungs switch to the familiar mode, laboring to conserve each measured intake.
Gleaming silver eyes flash back to me without warning to trip those lungs and stagger my desperate breath. Before I know it Jon’s deliberately slowing his pace while Maddy continues to propel, all vigor and determined drive, ponytail swinging madly as she disappears among the sprinting mass.
“Hey. You all right over there?”
My stupid heart leaps at the open male voice. Strange that I can plainly capture the one easy tenor like it’s the lone sound in the buffet of noises. I struggle to keep my gaze straight ahead and not on the man effortlessly trotting next to me.
“Still breathing,” I manage to huff out even though air seems to be stopped up in my throat.
I can feel those dimples erupting next to me without having to look.
“Good.” He nudges me playfully, intentionally, just enoug
h to disturb my steady stride. “How about now?”
“No need to…” Exhale. “Cheat.”
He chuckles. “You think you got me beat?”
I think I’m about to pass out. It takes two steps for me to slant him a look before my gaze swings back. “Don’t goad me.” I really haven’t mastered the art of running and chatting. It takes too much working oxygen. “Go away.”
A broad shoulder bumps me a second time. “Oops.” He grins when I shoot him a cross look. “My bad.”
Oops, my aching foot. He did that on purpose.
Two can play that game.
My elbow lightly rams into him as I dash off, dancing around serious runners as I swerve from the man fixed on niggling me. The enticing sound of masculine laughter vibrates from inches behind me.
Within seconds there’s a deliberate tug at my worn shirttail.
Only he’s not letting go of the already abused fabric even as I’m urgently trying to ignore the persistent jerking and twisting.
If I surge away, I very well might end up with only a sports bra to keep me from giving a different meaning to the words flash mob.
“Would you stop?” I toss over my shoulder and glare at him long enough to catch a glimpse of those devastating dips on his cheeks.
“All right, all right,” he acquiesces with a roguish grin. “Keep your shirt on.”
Ugh! This guy can’t take anything seriously.
*****
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